


The cost of silence

by avatarchai



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Gen, Mutilation, Torture, X-EXO Clones (EXO)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:35:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26261263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avatarchai/pseuds/avatarchai
Summary: His voice is still soft... but for how long?Optional bias, so you can choose who you're being tortured by~. Gender is not specified.
Relationships: EXO Ensemble/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	The cost of silence

His voice is still soft, but tinged with something strange. Misleading, _inaccurate._

He's been interrogating you for some time now, but you haven't answered any of his questions. In fact you haven't said a word, and because of that you've lost a concerning amount of blood. You have no left hand now.

You begin to wish he'd just finish you, but you know better. It's obvious he enjoys torturing people. And he knows how to do it, too. Knows how to and where to pull and cut and snip so you don't bleed to death. Of course he also knows how to treat amputations.

But all the hostages they take, die. So it's only a matter of time. You're going to die.

You subconsciously test the rope restraining your wrists.

Some time ago you said to yourself that you were prepared to die for your cause, to give your life for the greater good. But you weren't ready for this.

In the time you've been in the war you've seen some shit, but nothing could prepare you to experience it. There's just no way someone could've effectively showed you and made you understand how cruel the Fakes were. Their wickedness is irrational, as is their appearance.

The face you're so accustomed to, the one that brings so much comfort and hope, is altered, _butchered_. 

You could've handled some unreasonable eye color and some scars… but this is a different territory. It's like seeing him through three distorting mirrors at the same time, and a dose of LSD. His face makes no sense yet you recognize him. You wish you didn't. It'd be easier for you if you couldn't associate the name of your kind superior with this dark caricature.

_Who even came up with this-?_

Suddenly he slaps you, his long disgusting nails scratching your cheek. You have unfocused and he says that's not polite.

Polite, huh? How cynic. 

He asks for politeness when he just punched you and severed your fucking hand. Asks for politeness when he's been torturing you for three hours. Asks for politeness when _they_ abduct and murder your friends, leaving them like beer bottles smashed against the wall by shitty teenagers. Like flesh and bone are _fucking_ _glass_.

The sick feeling in your stomach grows heavier. You genuinely wonder what it is that a monster like him considers polite. 

You lift your gaze from your brand new stump and look at him with raw hatred.

You hate him and his stupid face that _looks_ _so_ _much like the real one you hate him you hate this war you hate them-_

Noticing he has your attention back, he pulls out another nail from your remaining hand. And you shout and you rattle in the chair once again, the bindings burning and digging into your skin. Oh how you regret joining the war. 

Spit pours freely from your mouth, but not a word.

"Still won't say anything?"

His voice is still soft as he watches you with raised eyebrows, still soft as he bends your little finger backwards, backwards until the phalanges separate from the metacarpal bone and your white tendons are left exposed and blood oozes into the equally white shiny floor.

Still, with sweat, tears and snot crawling down your face, you shake your head no. 

A hum.

He shoves your bloodied nail into your mouth and stands up, you gag on your own taste.

You're scared as he walks to get whatever he went to get, his silence only makes you more anxious. You feel your stomach churn violently. 

The shit you're experiencing makes you regret joining the war. Absolutely.

You spit your nail out.

But even if you're regretting it there's no way you'd rat on your people. No fucking way. You refuse to surrender, no matter what he does. 

Yeah. You repeat these words in your head, maybe then you'll ensure your resistance. With your head down and your shoulders scrunched, you pray, until a clean, _purposeful,_ metallic scratch distracts you. 

Then, _click, clack, click, clack._

With way too little steps he's back in front of you. You're not prepared and don't want to know what he has in his hands. But there's no use in delaying it.

So you look. Slowly.

You start by his feet, clad in shiny leather boots, pointy and dangerous. His legs are clothed in vinyl and his chest is covered by a similar jacket, with no stains of your blood because it slides down the plastic.

Then you reach his hands, pale, knotty and unnaturally sharp.

He holds a pair of pliers. Fuck.

"Guess you don't need your tongue, then."

His voice is no longer soft.

_Fuck._

**Author's Note:**

> Ohoho first fic! This is sort of a warm up, I have heavier stuff in process~.
> 
> What would you do? Let him rip your tongue out too, or talk in hopes of a better outcome? Do let me know, because there may or may not be a follow up ;)


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